


Oldenburg

by Khyber_Past



Category: Bridgerton (TV), Inception (2010)
Genre: Feminism Coming in HOT, Fluff, Inception/Bridgerton, Lady Whistledown Narrates, M/M, Mature (Probably), Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Royalty, Slow Romance, Smut (probably), WIP, courting, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 19,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28581813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khyber_Past/pseuds/Khyber_Past
Summary: Eloise prepares to be presented. Penelope guards her secret. A baker has his sights set on climbing the social ladder. And a prince descends upon London Town in the dead of night. Which lucky young debutante will catch his eye, I wonder? Perhaps it won't be a debutante at all.Until next time, dear reader.
Kudos: 28





	1. Lady Whistledown - Edition 1

_Dear reader, I come to you this fine morning with some exotic news indeed. First, we shall attend to business. It has been a while since we last met and I have missed you very much._

_Quiet year would you not agree? What with births and deaths, there has hardly been anything of interest to you, reader._

_What a finale to our last season in London. I was almost unmasked by a troubled woman with a self-important streak. The diamond of the season settled with her Duke. Another feathered house fell. It is the way of things in ton._

_The year has only just begun, and we’ve been gifted with a flurry of events. It seems the conflict in the colonies is heating up beyond boiling. A blaze destroyed the custom house on the Thames, and we were told lies of Napoleon’s death which were proved false. Something tells me a little more than coincidence is at play here._

_As the new season approaches, I thought I might look ahead, not behind. No one can say for sure what each season will hold. Those who think to predict events are usually left out in the cold, short of a penny and smelling frightful. We could see ourselves with a season even more scandalous than the last, with more failed matches than the fireplace. Perhaps we will once again warm ourselves at the fires of gossip._

_One might even expect another house to fall during the very season that is almost upon us._

_To return to that exotic news I mentioned, I will say only this; it would be a very boring season indeed without something, or someone, to excite us._

_As we all know the crown has cousins upon cousins. Usually, they wouldn’t warrant more than a glance, after all, we saw how Prince Frederick failed to…entertain._

_My sweet bumblebees, however, bring me a buzzing tale of a new prince on the cobbles of London. A prince who arrived late last night under the cover of darkness and has set himself up in an unusually small townhouse. Perhaps there is something at the palace he is avoiding?_

_Whether you flutter at royalty or not, the arrival of Prince Arthur Oldenburg is sure to set some fires alight this season._

_My last note is that you might think that I would return to my silence this year, leave the devils to rest one might say. I am here to tell you that there are secrets I will never let lie, and share them with you I most certainly will._

_Until next time, dear reader._

_Lady Whistledown_


	2. Man About Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nice to meet you. I hope you're ready for an adventure.

Eames went about his day as he usually would. He woke before sunrise and leaped out of bed with energy not fitting of that hour. He dressed in clothes that didn’t yet feel comfortable and ate a quick bite of bread in the kitchen.

He hit the cold air and smiled. It was another crisp morning in London. Even this early there was movement on the streets, people carting goods, fresh vegetables being organized atop crates, and the soft gaggle of women chattering.

There were also carriages, sneaking the unfaithful back to the nicer parts of the city. Men dragging themselves up the bricks of a urine-soaked wall. Women with smudged rouge making their way home after a busy evening.

Ah London. Eames wouldn’t have it any other way.

He passed by a house with dirty windows and shouts echoing from within. A woman emerged looking harried and rosy-cheeked.

“Morning.” Eames tapped the brim of his hat.

The woman smiled. “Morning, Mr. Eames.”

Eames pointed back towards her house, “Bill behaving himself?”

The woman sighed and dropped a wicker basket of washing. “Not likely.”

“I could have a word?” Eames offered.

The woman laughed and shook out a shirt. “Don’t tempt me. The sooner he finds work the better.”

Eames nodded. “I’ll have a word with a friend at the docks. I’m sure he could find something for Bill to do. Keep him out of your hair.”

The woman pegged the shirt and dropped him a smile so warm, Eames couldn’t help but smile back. “We’d be ever so grateful, Mr. Eames.”

“You and the children will be moreso than Bill, I imagine.”

She barked a laugh and bent back down to her washing.

Eames moved on, heading towards the inner city.

He tapped his hat a few more times on the way to his destination, earning himself a few blushing giggles and titters. The streets had started filling up with the young, delicate flowers that always sprung up right before the season began.

It was an exciting time, even for Eames, who had never really been bothered by the season. This year, however, would be different. Every other time Spring dawned on London Eames would watch from afar as the decadence and bright lights engulfed the chosen few. He would never admit to being jealous, and no matter how hard he tried to shy from it, he himself knew it was true.

But this year was different. Eames had found a way to climb the ladder few were even aware of. Eames was charming, yes. He had a presence about him, certainly. You would have to be blind not to accept that he was…desirable. Despite all of that, Eames was born to a window washer and a seamstress.

So no matter how charming or attractive Eames might be, his ancestry told the society all they needed to know about him.

He arrived at his tearoom in the heart of London city. With a sigh, he took it in. Just last month this building had been run down and decrepit. With the help of his friends and no small amount of heavy lifting himself, Eames had turned this hollow shell into everyone’s favourite afternoon tea spot.

It wasn’t uncommon to find an earl, a lady, even a duchess stopping in for a slice of something sweet. And sweet they were. Eames hadn’t wanted to run a cheap bakery, no mass production, and poor-quality ingredients. No, Eames knew if he were to begin a new life in London, he would need to rise to the level society expected.

The first day the tearooms opened he’d been nervous. From the moment he woke until the moment he ignited his ovens. As soon as the heat licked the kitchen all his nerves left. Replaced with the fluid and methodical practice that he’d been perfecting since he was a young boy.

After his father had died, Eames had become apprentice to a local baker to earn some money for his three younger sisters. Soon after his father’s untimely death, his mother fell ill, and then she too left them behind. Eames was fourteen when he took over the care of his sisters. It was not an easy childhood, but Eames didn’t complain. Rather than eating himself, he would make sure all of his sisters went to bed with full stomachs each night.

A shaft of sunlight split over the horizon and lit the signs all along the street. _Eames’s Tearooms_. The mint shade of green was set against a white sign with a lavender trim. Quite striking, even on this side of London. The soft colours followed throughout the entire tearooms, which beyond the clean glass, were still dark.

“Morning, Eames,” a man grunted as he scuttled past.

Eames nodded to the grubby man. He might own a business on the right side of the Thames, but Eames would always be one of the commoners. With that came benefits, connections.

Because while Eames might now dress in the finest linens and had suits tailored to his broad form, he was not quite the perfect businessman that he appeared to be.

Those nights when Eames went without eating forced him into a life few would choose themselves. Instead of sleeping through on an empty stomach the pain usually kept him awake, and what else was there to do when awake than roam the streets?

Eames might have been scared on those nights where he found himself in violent situations on the street, but he was fighting for more than just a shilling to drink with, he was fighting for his survival. And that sort of fire sends people down paths to unrecognizable reflections.

From pickpocketing to forgery, our humble baker became one of the most skilled criminals London had ever seen.

While he may have stolen his way into a fortune and comfort, he was yet to steal his way into the hearts of societies brightest.

As he made his way to the back door of the tearooms, he knew one thing. He hadn’t infiltrated the elite yet, but he was about to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Woman In The Drawing Room


	3. Woman in the Drawing Room

Julia was a fine lady’s maid. Most of the time. The only times Eloise fantasized about throttling her was when she threw open the curtains at an unreasonable hour.

“Julia,” Eloise whined into her pillow, “Can I not just have but another half hour?”

“'Fraid not miss, your mother will have me strung up if I don’t get you ready on time today.”

Eloise raised her head from her pillow like a monster from a lake, peering at the clock on her bedside. “Honestly, the bloody thing doesn’t even start until this afternoon.”

“Language, miss.” Julia pulled back the blanket and Eloise hissed at her.

“Fine. I shall get up, but I’m not putting on that satanic corset until the moment before we leave.”

Julia shook her head with a smile, unseen by Eloise. “Of course, miss.”

With the sunlight streaming into her room like a blistering, Eloise could hardly relax. She slid out of her bed with no enthusiasm and a sleepy snarl.

She looked at herself through the grand mirror in the corner of the room. “Perhaps I ought to wear my hair like this, Julia.”

Eloise’s hair could have quite easily been hiding a large bird’s nest inside and no onlooker would have ever been the wiser.

Julia huffed out a laugh. “That’d be a sight miss, her majesty looking at that mess on top of your head.”

“Perhaps she’ll expel me from court,” Eloise said hopefully, pulling at one particularly large knot of hair.

“I doubt that very much miss. You wouldn’t want to ruin Francesca or little miss Hyacinth’s chances when it’s her turn now would you?”

“They would be better off without all of this.” Eloise threw herself down into the cushioned chair at the window.

“Right you are miss, I’ll be back soon to help you get washed and ready.”

As was common for most mornings, Eloise had taken her perch at the wide windows of the room that had once been Daphne’s and watched the street outside.

Everyone seemed like they were in such a rush in London. For what? To see the latest trends in the shopfronts. To get to yet another awful luncheon. Eloise couldn’t wait until she could escape like Daphne had. Only she was going to escape without a man clutching to her arm, she was sure of it.

The pressure had started to mount on Eloise’s shoulders the moment Daphne had left. It was fine for a star like her to streak across the night sky of London, but as soon as it was gone, people’s eyes hungered for more, they wanted to devour the sights of those flashes in the sky.

Eloise knew she would never be that star.

So she had adopted a new view, she would, for but five months a year, become a rose for the season, and then when the gong rang for the end of the ball, she would return to her thorns. She could sacrifice those months. She hoped.

Footsteps picked up outside her bedroom door and as someone burst in, Eloise readied herself to unleash on the poor person who’d decided to interrupt her morning self-pity. Only, when Julia entered, she was rosy-cheeked and her hair was windswept. Perhaps it didn’t look quite as bad as Eloise’s did, but it was less than the perfectly pulled rows Eloise was used to.

“Whatever is the matter?” Eloise asked, worried.

Julia was puffed so instead of replying, she gestured Eloise to follow, which she did without hesitation. As they entered the wide hallway, Eloise scanned the doorways for footmen, maids, or worse of all, family. If she were caught running through the halls in nothing but her nightwear, she’d be in more trouble than she could handle.

Julia took her to the drawing-room where the mail was waiting on an immaculate silver tray. Atop a small pile of letters was a crème-coloured sheaf.

Eloise would recognize that anywhere.

“Whistledown!”

Eloise snatched it from the tray and spread it out on the table.

“Exotic news…self-important, oh the queen will be furious at that one,” Eloise mumbled as she read through the page. “Diamond of the season,” she made a fake heaving noise. “War, fires, the Napoleon mess. A prince? Oh grand.” Eloise, as was her reaction to most things, threw herself once again down into a chair.

“How exciting miss!” Julia exclaimed, finally recovered from her jog.

“Exciting? Hah! Hardly. Another prince for everyone to fuss over. They’re all going to be intolerable.” Eloise sighed.

“Just think miss,” Julia said as she picked up the Lady Whistledown and folded it neatly back up. “With a prince in town perhaps all the attention will be on him. Meaning…” she trailed.

Eloise sat straight. “Meaning no one will pay any mind to little old me. You’re right, Julia!”

“Eloise!” Viscountess and Eloise’s darling mother was stood at the door to the drawing-room, taking in her current state.

“Mother,” Eloise groaned, shooting up from her seat.

“Explain yourself,” the viscountess demanded.

“It’s just- well actually – you know…”

“Now.”

Instead of answering, Eloise simply pointed to the Whistledown in Julia’s hands.

The viscountess took one look, closed her eyes, inhaled a deep breath, and said in a level voice, “You are not, under any circumstances, to begin investigating that paper like some sort of sleuth. Do you understand me?”

Eloise nodded, looking at the ground.

“You are about to become a woman, and women do _not_ behave like this. Now you ought to be getting ready. Julia, please take her up and start your preparations.”

Julia nodded and whisked Eloise out of the drawing-room.

They moved quickly and quietly back to her room so as to avoid any more encounters in the hallway.

“You know what else this means?” Eloise said as they shut the door to her room.

“What’s that miss?” Julia asked, guiding Eloise to the seat at the dresser so she could start untangling the mess she called hair.

“It means she’s back. Whistledown. I shall find her this time for certain.”

“I don’t doubt it miss. But first, we need to get you ready, you don’t want to waste your day away.”

As the first stroke of the brush hit the knots in the back of her hair, Eloise stared glumly out the window. “I am certain there isn’t another soul alive who wants this day to be over more than I.”

On that point, Eloise Brigerton wasn’t quite correct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Prince Without A Palace


	4. Prince Without A Palace

Arthur ate breakfast with the curtains closed. The sun was teasing him, behaving as if there was a reason to be bright. He was in such a bad mood he spent the entire time wishing it would rain.

He’d been told the Winter just passed had been one of the coldest and most bitter. He was beginning to feel the same.

Arthur understood what his future would hold since he could remember. He would be raised around the world, learn the skills it took to become a good member of the royal family. He would study from the finest teachers and hone his talents. He would be afforded freedom…until his father grew bored and demanded he marry.

Only that hadn’t exactly happened. Arthur stirred his tea despite the face the sugar cube had long since dissolved. It was the motion of it that helped him think. As if his mind were the churning darkness in the cup, his happiness the sugar cube that had since vanished.

His mother had died at an early age and Arthur hadn’t understood to mourn her. His father had been gone a little under six months now, and Arthur was still waiting to feel the release of his grip. Even in death, his father managed to control his decisions, this time through his older brother, Rasmus, who had insisted he find a wife, and soon.

Arthur had mistakenly wished that with his father gone he would be able to make his own choices.

“The palace would have been warmer,” a disgruntled voice said.

Pulled from his childish thoughts of free will, Arthur nodded to his valet. Born into a well-regarded family, Dominic had joined Arthur in his adventures around the world, so it was a natural step for him to become Arthur’s valet. Though he was more than a valet, he was a friend, a confidant.

“Yes, it might have been warmer, but the company would have been…tepid.” Arthur sipped on his quickly cooling tea. He couldn’t have imagined anything worse than spending months locked up in a palace. Never being able to let his guard down, always having to abide the strict protocols. No, before he’d set foot on the ship that brought him here, he’d convinced the queen to allow him to stay in a small house in the city. A compromise with the queen that Arthur knew would cost him dearly at some point. He’d hoped that by not staying in the palace, he could minimize his impact here, perhaps even go unnoticed by many.

That hope was extinguished quickly after Dominic laid a single envelope and what appeared to be a single sheet of paper on the table.

“The mail arrived. The paperboy was selling these, so I picked one up. I believe you might find it interesting.” He left with an unsettling smirk.

Arthur picked up the thick sheet of paper and unfolded it. The neatly printed page almost fooled Arthur into thinking it was something of value.

A scandal sheet. Nothing more. After spending a moment wondering why Dom had suggested he might find it interesting, he saw his own name.

“Sure to set some fires,” he quoted, and against his own chiding, he indulged in the paper from the top.

Arthur sighed and laid the paper down. He had spurned the advances of dozens of perfectly lovely women over the years, so much so that he’d earned himself a stony reputation among the people of his home country. Which suited him perfectly well.

Word had reached him, this last Summer, that a Duke none thought would ever marry had finally been ensnared. The debutant, a supposedly stunning girl from London, had done the impossible and convinced the Duke to settle down.

For most people, this turn of events would mean nothing but a piece of feel-good news. For Arthur however, it meant a sense of confidence that would reach for him like a crashing wave. Once one unconquerable ocean was navigated, explorers would move onto the next. With or without this gossip paper, he was going to be the next ocean to sail across and stake claim to.

This Bridgerton girl had set a standard. The best prizes were those won after a hard-fought battle.

Arthur had not the time, nor the energy for it. Even thinking about the month-long advances, the dancing, the conversation, had him feeling nauseous. The last thing he needed this morning was to become ill.

Soon he would travel to Frogmore House and visit the queen. Hopefully, he would see some of his cousins whilst there. Arthur had always felt a connection to the Queen’s daughters, despite not spending a lot of time with them. The more he thought about it, it was less the daughters themselves, and more the situation they found themselves in. They too were trapped into a life of responsibility that they hadn’t chosen. Their paths already set from the moment they took their first breath.

“It’s time to get moving.” Dominic had entered the room carrying a deep blue jacket.

Artur drained his cup and set it down, dusting himself off as he rose, and stretching out his arms while Dominic helped him into the jacket.

“Excited to see the queen?” he asked.

Arthur mulled his reply, pulling at his tight collar. “Always. If only for a few minutes. You know how I feel about royals.” He buttoned his coat himself. Judging by the red of Dominic’s nose, it was going to be chilly out there. “I know for a fact my father wrote to her before he died. She’s going to make this trip abominable for me.” He was talking to himself more than anything.

Dominic patted him on the shoulder. “You’re going to be fine. It’s just a couple of months and then you’ll be free of it all.”

“And what if I’m not? What if they won’t let me leave unmarried?”

“I’ve met many stubborn people in my life, your highness, but I don’t know any who could best you when your mind is made up, even on your worst day.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” Arthur asked him.

Dominic shrugged. “To the carriage, your highness.”

Arthur winced. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“As soon as we’re back across the North Sea I’ll drop the title. Until then, we both know these Londoners would flock to a scandal so small.”

Arthur found him defending the Londoners. “They’re not all bad.”

“Are you sure?”

Arthur shook his head and showed the small signs of a smile. “No, not entirely.” He slammed the door behind himself and tapped on the roof. The carriage set off in a smooth roll.

As they drove through the streets, his thoughts turned to the paper he’d read, who was this Whistledown woman, and what sort of awful person was she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Maiden In The Kitchen


	5. Maiden In The Kitchen

Penelope knew her sisters would be in for a morning of excitement. As soon as they heard of the new Whistledown, it would propel them into a frenzy. As she had last year, Penelope would put on her best surprised face and act as if she were hearing brand new information when it arrived.

With the late nights, she was becoming more familiar with later morning wake-ups. She preferred to wake up once the sun had dusted some of the cold from the air anyway. After dressing herself in front of the mirror, a nice pastel yellow dress without frills or lace, she made her way downstairs.

The Featherington’s were quickly becoming accustomed to a different life. Gone was their grand house with lavish bedrooms and half a dozen parlors. Their new house sat on the fringes, close enough to the other well-born houses, but within sight of the darker parts of London.

Penelope’s mother had commented the day they moved in that the air smelled different, thicker. Penelope tried not to laugh, her family, whilst nearly entirely horrid, had still fallen quite far, and the last thing she needed was to add salt to the wound.

They’d been asked to leave their house by an agent. An agent who wouldn’t reveal his employer or his plans for the house. Not long after they’d been unceremoniously removed from their house, a sale advertisement was listed for the property. It hadn’t sold yet, they believed, but it was hard to know.

Whoever had inherited their father’s estate and fortune, or lack thereof, had remained completely anonymous. Penelope knew her mother had received the name of the heir, but she hadn’t shared that with her daughters. Even as far as Lady Whistledown’s reach extended, Penelope couldn’t track down a single piece of information on the heir.

“Good morning, sisters,” Penelope said as she entered the kitchen. Without all those parlors and dining rooms, the girls were sentenced to the large kitchen for breakfast.

They mumbled their good mornings back, looking miserable.

Penelope almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

Her two sisters had loved their father dearly, and Penelope supposed she had liked him more than she liked her mother, but love wasn’t a word she was comfortable using when she looked at her parents. Penelope had wondered how sad her sisters and mother would have been if they hadn’t also lost all their money at the same time as their father’s death. She thought there might have been fewer tears if they were able to dry their eyes with new lace.

Their mother strode into the room, clinging desperately to the air of the woman she once was. “Girls.” She was dressed, as usual in a putrid green dress, only like Penelope’s and her sister’s the frills were absent. A cost they could no longer bear.

She took her seat at the head of the table, followed by the one luxury they simply wouldn’t do without; Mrs. Varley, the housekeeper. Penelope had thought at least one positive of losing their fortune and their standing would be not having to see that haggard woman’s face, and yet here she was, pouring tea. Just Penelope’s luck.

The door rang and the women looked around at each other. With no footmen or butler to take care of it, one of them would have to be the selfless volunteer to take on the task of getting their mail each morning.

Penelope put her feet up on the chair beside her, earning a tut from her mother. She already knew what waited in the mail pile, she wasn’t concerned with collecting it.

“Fine. I shall go.” Prudence huffed, bunching her dress and storming out of the kitchen.

As predicted, less than a minute later, presumably after Prudence had rudely inspected the mail that wasn’t hers, she let out a loud yelp.

Penelope rolled her eyes, Philipa tutted, and their mother sprang to her feet. “Are you well?” she called.

Prudence flung into the kitchen as if propelled by a furious wind.

“Whistledown!” she screeched, slamming it on the table.

Brought alive by the one word that invigorated even the old and decrepit people of London, the women, save Penelope, crowded around to read.

They let out many ooo’s and ahh’s as they read.

Penelope watched tentatively as her mother read the line about a fallen house, she thought she saw her stiffen slightly, but she continued reading.

When they were all done, Lady Featherington surprised everyone else in the room by rushing to the window with a bright smile. “You know what this means.”

“That Lady Whistledown is back?” Philipa asked.

“That we’re the joke of the other families?” Prudence whined.

“No,” their mother said in a hushed tone. “’ It means we have a chance, no matter how little, to win it all back.”

Of course that’s what she’d focused on. Their redemption. Penelope could almost hear her thoughts working together, forming a plan to win over the prince, and thus restore their name. That's all Penelope needed on top of everything else, for her mother to be desperately trying to marry them all off to a prince who more than likely wanted nothing to do with any of them.

“Don’t you want to read it?” Prudence said with an air of superiority, holding the Whistledown.

“Not particularly.” Penelope shrugged. “It’s all a load of rubbish anyway.” Turning to her mother she said, “I’m going to a dress fitting this morning, something to wear to Lady Danbury’s ball.”

“You don’t even know that we’ve been invited yet,” Philipa said. “Have we, mother?”

Lady Featherington was eyeing Penelope through narrow slits. “We have indeed. And how, may I ask, do you plan on paying for the dress Penelope? We haven’t the money to spare.”

“Even if we did,” Prudence said with a vicious smile, “we wouldn’t be spending it on you.”

Penelope got up, leveling a bored stare at Prudence. “I sold some of my old dresses to Eloise.” It was a risky lie, and she knew that. But she depended on none of her family liking Eloise to stop them from asking her to verify it. Eloise was, after all, a bit of a different sort.

Penelope hated having money and being unable to spend it as she wished. Her moonlit job as Lady Whistledown meant she had enough money of her own to live comfortably for a good while. Then of course, there was her _other_ money, but she hardly thought of that as her own.

Her two sisters let out laughs, even her mother looked amused.

“She’ll never fit!” Mrs. Varley gasped.

Sounding as sweet as sugared snap, Penelope said, “I’m sure she’ll be able to afford to take them to a seamstress, unlike our family, she doesn’t have to live on scraps.”

With that, Penelope left four stunned faces and made her way to the door.

Her sting was going to be sharper than ever this season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Lady Of The Manor


	6. Lady Of The Manor

Lady Danbury swept through the grand entrance to her manor like a woman on a mission.

Something had rekindled the flames of her past when Simon had returned to London last season. An interest she had long since lost for the events that orbited her.

Her house was humming to life after being dormant over the Winter. Handmaids and footmen were bustling about, dragging white sheets off furniture, and placing new candles in each chandelier. Lady Danbury took in a deep breath, it was good to be home.

The last winter had chilled her beyond belief and she’d started to wonder if the leaves would ever turn green again. But they had, as they always did, and now it was time for more Spring sprouts to find their way up the lattice and into bloom.

The presenting of debutantes didn’t interest Lady Danbury, it was the interactions that came after. She would watch the young ladies flit like butterflies, eagerly hunted by the men. Some gentlemen, some spiders, hungry to sink their teeth into prey.

Lady Danbury had watched this ritual occur for many years now, but after her interference with Simon and Daphne had yielded such a result, she would set herself to do the same this season, she just needed a target.

A target which had revealed himself just after dawn when the mail arrived. Prince Arthur.

She was moving without destination, tapping the crème pamphlet in her hands with one long slender finger.

The last prince to arrive on their shores had been a disappointment, this they could all agree on. A fresh prince on the scene, however, especially this one, would have the town talking.

Lady Danbury had met Prince Arthur several times before. Once when she and her husband had taken a short tour of Northern Europe, and then the times Arthur had visited for a few of the more important royal celebrations. Of course, that had been a long time ago, when Arthur had been but a boy.

The prince had most assuredly become a man by now, one of good character, Lady Danbury hoped, and therefore the most eligible prize in London.

She had a few thoughts on who might suit him, although she wanted to meet him once more to assess his character, thus she would be able to organize a better fit, she thought.

From what she remembered from her visit to his home country, Arthur had been a quiet boy, serious, but charming all the same. It was only when he was set loose with his cousins back in London that he behaved like the child he was, yelling, laughing, and if she recalled correctly, he had quite the penchant for climbing trees and being unable to get back down.

She supposed it was the eyes of his father that turned him into the rigid statue she had met in Norway, and once out of his sphere, Arthur had melted into something warmer.

Lady Danbury wasn’t sure she would ever find a father she thought was worthy. Men, it seemed, were not built for it. She hoped she was wrong in the case of Simon and his newborn son, but she would be sure to make her presence known in the child’s life, if only to remind Simon of his potential.

As she walked through the hall that would soon become filled with dancers in the finest silks, Lady Danbury stopped and cast her mind back to watching romantic events unfold in this very room throughout history.

Prince Arthur could be the next to find love within these walls. And certainly would, if she had anything to say about it.

“Lady Danbury, we have a slight problem ma’am,” her butler said, arriving in the hall pulling her from her rose-tinted reverie.

There were many reasons she had wanted to bring on a young butler. They would need to be strong to carry her luggage about the country, they would need to have sharp eyes and quick thoughts, but perhaps most of all, Lady Danbury wanted to bring a new energetic feel to the house.

This was all in addition to Lady Danbury’s real passion in life, molding people. She knew that by giving the young man a chance she had the opportunity to shape his future, to better it. She trusted very few people in this world, even less in London, but she hoped one day she might come to trust her young butler.

With a tut she said, “We don’t have problems, Isaac, we have solutions.”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s just, our usual baker seems to have closed his business like.”

“No, not like, they have closed their business. End of sentence,” she chided. “Why have they closed?” Lady Danbury leaned on her cane and let the full weight of her gaze penetrate Isaac.

“U-uh.”

Lady Danbury narrowed her eyes.

“The place was abandoned when one of the gardening boys went to check the order.”

After another moment of pressure, Lady Danbury relented and took her butler by the arm.

“We find this out less than two days before the ball? Isaac, do you know what it means to open the season?” She led him out into the courtyard garden.

“Yes ma’am.”

“You do? It seems as if someone who knew the importance of the event would have already devised a solution to the problem then.”

Isaac’s eyes widened as he tried to form words.

Lady Danbury nodded. “I can assume then, Isaac, you have arrived with an alternative to our usual baker?”

“I- yes ma’am,” Isaac managed.

“Splendid. Send for a carriage and we’ll visit at once.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Before she’d gone too far, Lady Danbury turned and asked, “This baker, what is their name?”

“Eames, your ladyship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: An Anticipated Request


	7. An Anticipated Request

The tearooms had been quiet all morning.

A few groups of women had been in, exchanging hushed conversations at their tables as if conspirators to a heinous crime, but their giggles always betrayed them as innocent.

Eames often stood at the counter and watched them. He liked to imagine what conversations there were having, where they had just been, and what they might be going to do once they left.

Lydia bustled in, drying her hands. “Who’re you gawping at now?”

Eames nodded to the two older women sitting at the window seat, bathed in sunlight.

“And?” Lydia asked.

“Lovers,” he replied.

“Ooo how daring,” Lydia said, leaning next to him against the cabinet, placing her head atop her folded hands. “What else?”

“They both married to deter rumors, but now both of their husbands have mysteriously died. Leaving nothing in the way of them becoming spinsters together. They go out in public because it exhilarates them. A stolen touch under the table, a kiss in the back of a carriage.” He ended his imagined tale and Lydia sighed.

“Anyone would think you were a romantic with all those sweet words.” She retched.

Eames laughed. “It was a story about two old women murdering their husbands and that’s what you took away from it?”

Hiring his sister had been one of the riskiest business decisions Eames had made, but they worked well together, and things were a lot more fun with her around.

Before she could start whipping him with a rag, as she was prone to doing, the bell above the door jingled.

Eames looked up to find a young lad thoroughly out of breath and clutching his chest. He motioned the boy to come to him, which he did, unceremoniously scuffing his way through the tearoom, drawing looks from the two old women.

“Mr. Eames,” the boy puffed when he made it to the counter. “She’s almost here.”

Eames nodded. “Grab him some water and give him a half-penny, would you?” he asked Lydia, who ushered the boy away into the kitchen. Eames checked himself in one of the mirrors on the wall. He loved an ornate mirror. His mother had always said a good mirror will open up a room.

When Lydia returned Eames had lost any sense of his playful attitude.

“Treat her as any guest when she arrives. Be prompt, don’t offer to take her cane, she will hit you with it.” Eames held his sister by her shoulders. “This could be the most important customer we’ve ever had…Try not to say fuck.”

Lydia nodded, understanding the seriousness of her visit.

Eames took a moment to prepare himself too. He’d known this was coming for some weeks now, and he was ready.

An immaculate black coach slowed at the curb outside.

Eames checked the glass cabinet, neatly stocked full of his delicate fancies.

The bell jingled behind him.

He drew himself up and turned. Lady Danbury stood in the doorway to his tearoom.

“Well,” she asked the room at large, “might I have a seat? Or am I to stand here until my bones wither to dust.”

Lydia rushed to her and led her to a table. The other guests were all eyeing Lady Danbury with a mix of awe and fear. Eames too was trapped, marveling at her. While he might have heard about her and prepared for her visit with great details of her personality, he hadn’t actually seen her before. He’d never met anyone who looked so frail command such a powerful presence. Her reputation hadn’t been exaggerated.

She must have ordered, because Lydia scurried away, shooting him a harried glance and disappearing into the kitchen.

Eames looked up to see Lady Danbury peering at him, disinterested. She lifted her hand and beckoned him with one crooked finger.

He placed a small, but hopefully charming, smile on his lips, and moved towards her. He bowed. She gestured for him to take a seat. Eames wanted to smirk so badly. The woman was indeed the phenomenon he’d been promised, offering him a seat in his own establishment.

“Mr. Eames, I presume,” her eyes were sharp and seeking, devouring him with the intensity of a headmistress. Eames’s ability to control his façade hadn’t failed him before, and he hoped it wouldn’t now.

He nodded, “Yes, your ladyship.”

She was quiet for a long while, never letting her eyes drift from Eames. If he were a different man he might have buckled under the heat of her silent appraisal. But he wasn’t a different man, he was Eames, and he was certain of himself.

“Your tearoom is a new addition to what was once a respectable row,” she commented.

The corners of his mouth tugged up. “ _Once_ a respectable row? I should think it’s all the more respectable now.”

“Should you indeed?”

Eames had seen images of lions before, but he’d never met a lioness.

“Are you aware, Mr. Eames, that a nearby bakery recently closed without warning?”

Straight to business then. Eames arranged his face to showcase the picture of innocence. “I wasn’t ma’am, no.”

Lydia returned with a steaming teapot and crockery. Before she could spin and run, Lady Danbury placed a single finger on Lydia’s arm, freezing her on the spot. “Bring me some of your favourite cakes.” As soon as her finger pulled away, Lydia was off.

Lady Danbury took a moment to scour the tearoom. From the ceilings to the carpet, her eyes calculated it all. “You expect me to believe someone who has recently opened a business in a busy market had no idea their competition had vanished?”

“What can I say?” Eames shrugged. “I prefer to focus on myself.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that Mr. Eames.”

Lydia returned, hands shaking as she laid a plate of delicate sweets onto the table.

Ignoring Eames completely, Lady Danbury made her way through the plate, picking up each item with a gloved hand, nibbling at the edge, and then placing it back down.

“You made all of these?” she asked.

Eames nodded.

“You have a talent.”

Eames bowed his head in reply.

“I find myself, Mr. Eames, through events out of my control, needing someone new to cater a ball.”

Eames didn’t speak back, he suspected Lady Danbury had only stopped talking in the hopes he would interrupt her so she could scold him.

She continued, “My butler recommended you specifically.”

“He must have good taste.”

“I keep more faith in my own tastes.”

“And? How _did_ they taste?” Eames gestured to the plate in front of her.

Her face was stone, peering into him like you would an untrustworthy salesman.

Eames wasn’t worried, his thoughts hidden by a carefully curated porcelain mask.

Lady Danbury’s teeth flashed, revealing a wide smile. “Delicious.”

There was an unsettling and unknowable quality to Lady Danbury. He had seen that smile before. It was the smile of knowledge, of intelligence. It was the smile of a lioness.

“We would be honoured to cater for your ball, Lady Danbury.” He bowed again, relieved.

With a slow and deadly tone, she said, “I do no recall introducing myself.”

His first mistake. Eames cursed himself. “One of your stature hardly needs an introduction.”

Lady Danbury had trapped him, caught him off balance, and now she would strike. “You also seem to be under the impression that I had requested your services.”

Eames was locked in a verbal dance of knives. He’d rather be dealing with knives than tongues, actually. He lit the charm in his smile. “You were surely about to.”

Lady Danbury raised one pristine eyebrow. “Was I indeed?”

For a second Eames thought he’d made too many mistakes, his stomach dropped.

With a deep exhale, Lady Danbury nodded, flashing another grin. “Very good. Will you be ready in two days?”

“It will be hard work, ma’am,: he said, leaning back in his chair.

“Playing coy, Mr. Eames? Or perhaps you think there should be some sort of late request fee?”

Eames shrugged. “A man can try, Lady Danbury.”

“Indeed. Men always will.” She rose using the support of her cane. “I shall send my boys to help collect the food the day after tomorrow. Oh, and perhaps tell her,” she gestured her cane at Lydia, “to loosen up, nobody likes stiff service.”

With that, she was out the door and gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: An Unwelcome Visitor


	8. An Unwelcome Guest

Eloise, draped in her first -but sadly not last- dress of the day, made her way to the carriage waiting outside their house.

She’d convinced her mother she simply _had_ to go and collect a broach from Penelope. Obviously, she didn’t want a broach at all; Eloise needed to theorize to Pen whilst she pondered this morning’s Whistledown.

The driver sped the carriage through London while Eloise reclined in across two seats, re-reading the Whistledown over and over again. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about the Whistledown had been different, fresh energy, perhaps a new vigor.

Whistledown seemed less concerned with what had happened, and more about what she thought would happen, even wanted to happen. Perhaps it was because there had been very little salacious news over the winter.

Eloise knew that to be untrue. Lots had happened over the Winter, only maybe not the scandalous news London’s society sought after. She’d spent much of her time in the country, keeping warm and getting out in the chilly sun, but each time a paper came, she quickly snatched it up and drank in all the news should could. Sometimes she became so desperate she even read the business pages.

Eloise had missed a lot back in London, and Lady Whistledown had only scratched the surface. First, there had been a massive fire at Customs house right on the Thames river. A huge blaze, witnesses had said, the whole sky was lit bright orange, even in the middle of the night. Then there was the Napoleon lie. For a brief moment, everyone in London had believed the war to be ended and Napoleon dead. Of course, by the time the news reached Eloise it had already been proven false. The cold had found them even in the country, but by the paper’s estimates, it had been the coldest winter in memory. So yes, much had happened in her absence, and she was glad to be back.

Not one part of her had wanted to stay isolated in the country a second longer. She’d missed all the excitement and dramatics of London, and longed for it terribly.

The carriage jostled.

The Whistledown floated to her feet.

As she bent down to pick it up there must have been a hole in the road, because the carriage jolted again, this time Eloise flew across it and smacked her head on the chair opposite.

“Ow!” she yelped, landing in a tangle. She couldn’t tell her head from her elbow and her dress was on the verge of strangling her.

The carriage came to a stop.

With flailing hands, Eloise searched blindly for the door handle, latching upon it with desperate hands, she yanked.

Feeling the fresh air of freedom, Eloise rolled herself forward and tumbled to the ground. Pain filled her body like fire.

“Are you quite alright, miss?” a soft voice asked her.

Eloise tried her best to extricate herself from the folds of fabric. She hated dresses, truly.

“Perhaps I might help?” The voice was deep too. It definitely wasn’t her driver.

She rolled her eyes, not caring who it was as long as she got untangled. “Please.”

Deft hands worked the dress back to where it was meant to be, freeing Eloise’s face. “Oh.”

“Oh?” the man asked.

Eloise was stuck staring.

As a general rule, Eloise didn’t swoon over people. Yes, she’d thought people were occasionally pleasing to the eye. But as she stared up into a pair of silver eyes, she was just…stuck.

The man was broad, taking up almost her entire field of vision, he wore a suit that was tailored in all the right places, including a crisp hat, all of which were the perfect shade of gray to bring out those eyes she couldn’t stop staring at.

He held out a hand, presumably to help her up, but another general rule she followed, was to refuse help. She scrambled up, getting her hands thoroughly dirty on the cobbles.

“Alright then.” He chuckled. “You seem to have banged your head,” he said.

“So?”

“So are you well?” He seemed on the verge of absolute fits of laughter, which only infuriated Eloise further.

“Quite well, thank you.” Eloise brushed her dress down, undoubtedly smearing it with the dirt from the ground.

“You dropped this.” The man took off his hat and swept down to pick something up. “Ah. Lady Whistledown.”

Eloise fired up. “You think I’m one of those gossipy old women?”

He blinked at her, bemused still.

“Well I’m not, and frankly it’s offensive of you to assume so.”

“Pardon me then.”

“Yes pardon you indeed. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be getting on with my day, I haven’t the time nor the patience for you.”

“Of course. Have a lovely day, miss.” He flashed her a smile so warm she threatened to melt. He tipped his hat and moved on.

“What an intolerable man,” she huffed.

“You alright miss?” The driver asked her, peering around the carriage.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course.” Without any more distractions, she turned to Pen’s new house.

It wasn’t very large, and the outside wasn’t very clean. It was pressed in between two other houses and looked like a cramped passenger in the back of a cart full of potatoes. There was charm here, she forced herself to think, in the way the vines climbed up the chipped brick, but she knew it must have hurt the Featherington's to fall from grace.

She leaped up the steps to the door and banged loudly.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Featherington, recently widowed, appeared. Eloise had pictured her in full black, a state of mourning. However, the violent shade of green she was confronted with had Eloise's eyes bulging and sent her stumbling back down the stairs.

“You,” she spat.

“Me,” Eloise said, curtsying.

“I’m sure Penelope is far too busy to see you today.” She paused, eyes narrow. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready to be presented?” She looked her outfit up and down, noting the dirt. “Unless, of course, that’s how you plan on attending?”

Eloise painted on her fakest smile and shook her head. “As tempting as that may be…”

“Well you should be off then, I think, clean yourself up," Lady Featherington snapped.

“Of course, Mrs. Featherington.”

The woman’s nostrils flared and Eloise hid a grin. “ _Lady_ Featherington,” she practically frothed.

Eloise tried to look innocent. “What happens to a Baroness when her husband dies?”

The anger was brimming on Lady Featherington’s face but she took a breath and instead of raising a hand to Eloise, she slammed the door with a crack.

Poor Pen, she thought, making her way to the road.

“Eloise!”

She spun, standing in the doorway was none other than the lemon-clad Penelope Featherington. Eloise hadn’t realized exactly how much she’d missed Pen until she saw her cheery face at the top of the steps. She sped down them and they collided in a fierce hug.

“Pen!”

They hugged for a long time and eventually, Eloise’s thoughts turned to the dirt she must be spreading across Pen’s dress. She pulled away and wiped her eyes. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” Pen seemed overjoyed. “Let’s get out of here before that crow comes back.”

Laughing, they reached the street.

“Shall we walk? I’ve got a dress fitting with Madame Delacroix.”

“Excellent!” Eloise said, turning to her driver who was still atop the carriage. “I’ll be at the dressmaker. Could you meet me there?”

The driver nodded and clopped away with the horses.

“I must say, Eloise, this is the most _you_ you’ve ever looked.”

Eloise appraised herself. Pen wasn’t wrong. Her dress wasn’t only dirty, it was ragged from her fall on the ground.

“That reminds me,” Eloise said, looping her arm through Pen’s, “I met this awfully rude man outside your house.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh nothing, he just offered me help.”

“That hardly makes him the rudest man alive Eloise.”

“Well, there was also his face.”

“Was he hideous?”

“Quite the opposite. Unsettling handsome.”

“Sounds awful for you. Remind me again who was rude to whom?”

Eloise rolled her eyes once more. She spent more time looking at the back of her head than she did watching where she was going.

“How have you been?” Eloise asked, pushing the man from her mind.

Pen shrugged. “We spent the whole winter here.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t strangle anyone.”

“Not as surprised as I am.”

They laughed the whole way down the street, exchanging stories from their time apart. How it had been for Pen, being couped up with her mother and sisters. Eloise talked about her time in the country and how she’d missed out on all the events that happened in London.

“And how is Colin?” Pen asked, glancing at Eloise.

“Fine, fine.” She waved her hand. “He sent a letter last month talking about an island off the coast of Greece he was planning on visiting.”

“Oh, well I’m glad he’s safe.”

“Of course he’s safe. Safe and exploring the world without any worries, responsibilities or concerns.” Eloise kicked a stone. “I didn’t come to speak about _Colin_ ,” she said the name as if it were a foul word. “I came because-”

“Whistledown,” Pen cut her off in an unsurprised tone.

“Yes!” Eloise became animated instantly. “Whistledown is back.”

Pen smiled at her like you would an over-excited child.

“You can’t tell me you’re not elated. She was the only thing that made last season bearable.”

“I recall last season being anything but bearable,” Pen said.

Feeling the cold sweep of regret, Eloise blabbered, “Oh how foolish of me. I’m sorry Pen, I forgot about your father.”

She shrugged. “It’s fine. Back to Whistledown.”

“Yes. Whistledown. Did you think she sounded strange? Perhaps more involved this year.”

“I suppose she did seem more invested.”

“What could have changed over the Winter that suddenly Whistledown is an active participant, rather than a passive reporter?” Eloise was talking to herself more than Pen.

“I really haven’t any idea, Eloise. Perhaps she had a change of heart.”

“But what does it _mean,_ Pen? Are we to expect more scandals being exposed?”

“I should hope so.”

"I can't believe I almost saw here. I almost knew who she was, Pen! Can you imagine?"

"Hardly," she replied without any excitement.

As they arrived at Madame Delacroix’s shop, a bell struck in the distance. Eloise stilled. “Blazes.”

“Eloise!” Pen scolded, looking around to see if anyone else had heard.

“Mother’s going to kill me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: An Exquisite Welcome


	9. An Exquisite Welcome

Arthur checked himself in the well-polished wood of the carriage. He thought he looked fine, but there was sure to be a hair out of place or an eyelash wandering across his cheek.

“Prince Arthur.” The Queen’s secretary was waiting for him at the grand door to Frogmore House. He was a shrewd portly man and his eyes reminded Arthur to keep his wits about him.

The secretary led him into the house. It had changed since Arthur had visited as a child. The paintings seemed smaller, but brighter. The hallways seemed longer, but quieter.

“Her Majesty will receive you in the Queen’s Library," the secretary said.

Arthur continued to follow, down corridors with sprawling windows and lavish carpet. Places like this reminded him of the royal castles back home. He hated them.

They arrived at the door to the Queen’s library and Arthur steeled himself. Nodding to the secretary, he opened the door.

The Queen dominated the room. She was spread out across a lounge chair looking the most regal she ever had. While Arthur’s immediate reaction to royalty was a negative one, there was no denying Queen Charlotte was a sight to see. The air around her swirled with an eminence that was impossible to manufacture.

As he approached, Arthur noted that instead of her daughters at her side, the Queen was surrounded by her flock of maids.

He hid his disappointment as he did with most emotions. He’d hoped to see at least one of the Queen’s daughters.

“Your Majesty.” Arthur bowed low, noticing a fleck of mud on his new shoe.

The Queen held out her jeweled hand, which Arthur kissed.

“Have I offended you?” she asked and pursed her lips.

Straight to it then, Arthur thought. “Of course not, Your Majesty.”

While she might look placid, here in a royal residence, words were sharper than steel. “Then why have you chosen to reside in that awful townhouse?”

Arthur settled on something between a lie and the truth. “I did not wish to impose on your household any more than was absolutely necessary, ma’am.”

The Queen ran a finger in circles across her wrist. “But you would wish to defy a request from a queen? Your very own cousin?”

“Forgive me, ma’am.” Arthur bowed low once more, seeing more of the carpet today than he had his host.

Sensing his defeat, the Queen let up, curving her lips into a soft smile. “Enough with the ma’am, it makes me feel old.”

Arthur smiled back, relaxing a touch. “Nonsense, you look hardly a day over-”

With wide eyes, the Queen's smile threatened to evaporate. “Be very careful cousin, I could have you beheaded.”

Treading carefully and overdoing the charm he said, “Young enough that I had you confused for a debutante when I saw you.”

“A poor liar, cousin," the Queen said with a sly grin.

“One of my worst qualities, I’m told.”

“Refreshing,” the Queen said, then in a sweeter tone, “I sometimes feel as if I am lied to day after day.”

Arthur watched a shiver of fear ripple through the household staff surrounding her. He fought a laugh. Charlotte was harmless, really.

“Shall we walk?” she asked.

“It would be my honour.” Arthur bowed.

The Queen stood and reached out a hand, which Arthur let rest in the crook of his elbow.

The lady’s maids and footmen seemed stuck on the Queen’s quip about being lied to because none of them moved.

“I said,” the Queen’s tone became dangerously level, “I am going to walk.”

That snapped them out of it. The staff rushed around her, curtsying and bowing while two of the footmen opened the doors wide.

“Better,” she sighed.

The Queen walked at a slow and measured pace and it was a long few minutes of silence before they entered a room with wide sweeping views of the grounds.

“The Green Pavilion,” the Queen announced.

True to its name, the Green Pavilion was indeed very green. The walls were the shade of green you only usually saw on oak tree at the start of Summer. It clashed terribly with the bright green of the rolling lawns outside the windows. There were dozens of portraits spaced out across the walls. Some Arthur knew of, old Kings and Queens long dead, but mostly they were unfamiliar.

One, however, he recognized immediately.

He stopped moving and the Queen’s hand pulled at his elbow. She turned back, ready to admonish him, and saw the portrait he was looking at.

“Ah,” her voice was gentle.

The subject of the portrait was a beautiful woman, not much older than a girl but with a great beauty that aged her.

Her eyes had been brighter in life, Arthur remembered. Her hair a better shade of gold. And her smile had been all the warmth a person needed to feel loved. Arthur felt his eyes burn.

“I was terribly sorry to learn of Amelia,” he said tightly.

The Queen nodded, appraising the portrait of her above them. “She might have been the best of us.”

Arthur couldn’t say any more. His throat had sealed.

Amelia had impacted his childhood as much as any of her sister’s had. Memories of them were something Arthur held in his darkest hours, lighting his path. The Queen's daughters had all been a little older than him when he used to visit, but that had never stopped them from spending time with him and making his summers seem all the brighter. 

“I shall leave you now, cousin. I thought you might need help to find your way out so I have requested my best woman to assist you.”

“I should be fin-”

“You would argue with your queen twice in one visit?” she scorned with a twinkle in her eye.

Arthur bowed. “Apologies…ma’am.”

The Queen appeared to have sealed a laugh behind her lips. “You are most welcome in England, Prince Arthur. Here, my best woman.” The Queen gestured behind him.

Arthur turned to see a delicate figure making its way towards them. The woman was dressed in a simple gown, nothing over the top or ornate, and still, she was glowing. Her reddish hair blew about her like the mane of a lion, framing a simple and perfect face.

The Queen’s daughters had never needed clothes or jewels to make them beautiful.

“Augusta!” He dashed to meet her, kissing her once on each cheek. He felt the unfamiliar ache of a smile on his face.

“I shall leave you to reminisce. I think I will have a lie-down.” The Queen turned, surrounded by her flock of staff that Arthur was certain hadn’t been there a moment before.

No sooner had the queen left the room and the door closed behind her that Augusta leapt to him, clinging to him tightly. “Arthur I’m so happy to see you!”

“And I, you, cousin," he laughed.

They broke apart but Augusta held onto his arm, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Shall we walk in the gardens? I do love it out there.”

Arthur nodded, leading her out of the Green Pavilion and into the grounds.

“I’ve barely been able to sleep these last nights knowing you were coming. I’ve missed you terribly. We all have. Why does your father insist you stay tucked away in that dusty old castle? You must hate it there. _I_ hate it there. Do you think you’ll move to London? Oh, you must. We’d have the best time.”

Arthur was beaming, he could feel it. Augusta had a way of making everyone in the room feel completely at ease. It was probably the babbling.

“You must tell me everything that’s happened since we last met,” she ordered.

Not wanting to make disobeying royalty a character trait, Arthur agreed. Quickly skirting over the last few years he’d been at home in Norway, assuring her nothing remotely interesting had occurred.

“I doubt that very much,” she said, her eyes piercing.

“Your turn. How are your sisters?” Arthur successfully deflected the conversation, although judging by the unsatisfied look in Augusta’s eyes, he knew she wasn’t done with him yet.

“Charlotte left with her beau, and then got caught up in all that Napoleon business. I’ve not seen her for years now,” she looked out across the grounds sadly. “Of course, she’s a queen now too. Two Queen Charlotte’s existing at the same time, if you can believe.”

“Is she happy?” he asked.

“Oh, Arthur.” Augusta squeezed his arm tight. “You know our duties. Besides, I’m sure she’ll learn to be happy in time.”

“Elizabeth?”

“Well Elizabeth, you know how she is, started herself a little cottage at Old Windsor. Surrounded by all those flowers and no people. It must be lonely.”

“And Mary?” Although Arthur suspected the conversation was about to turn, he was still shaken when it did.

“Mary is fine, still doing all of Mama’s spying. Amelia took a toll on her though. It took a toll on us all.”

Arthur saw tears welling in her eyes and squeezed her arm tightly.

Shaking herself, Princess Augusta continued, “Sophia is…still idyllic.”

“And your parents?”

Augusta took a deep breath. “You saw Mama, she gets less well-tempered each sunrise it seems. Papa hasn’t made any improvements since your last visit I’m afraid.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Arthur said, knowing how hard things must be for her.

“I’m not. I have my favorite cousin back with me for the whole season!”

Arthur pulled at his tightly buttoned collar. “I fear I may be swept up in more engagements than I can handle.”

Her laugh tinkled like wind through a chime. “Yes, how excited _are_ you for all the swooning young debutantes?”.

“Thrilled,” he said without any enthusiasm.

“It won’t be all that bad. The food will be delicious." Augusta was always trying to see the positives.

Feeling the results of a half-eaten breakfast, Arthur whined, “I hope so. I’m desperate for something sweet.”

“Oh there will be plenty of sweets for you to devour I’m sure,” she giggled.

Surprising himself, Arthur may have let a giggle out himself. “Augusta! This mystery man seems to have had quite the effect on you.”

Augusta stared at some passing clouds happily, sighing. “I suppose he has.”

“I should like to meet this Mr. Spencer your letters spoke of.”

Augusta's cheeks were heating up. “Oh hush. Don’t let Mama hear, she’ll have me locked away in a tower somewhere.”

“Well, I’m happy for you, truly.”

It was her turn to squeeze him this time. “Thank you, Arthur. And what of you, any stolen romances you’d like to regale me with?”

Arthur looked over his shoulder. “You know as well as I that even the shrubs have ears here.”

Amelia nodded. “I shall visit you soon, as long as Mama permits it.”

“I would love that.” He sighed.

They arrived back at the front of the house where Arthur’s carriage awaited them.

The Queen’s secretary was stood at the carriage steps.

“Your Majesties,” he said, bowing to Augusta and then to Arthur. ”Concerning this afternoon’s presenting, you are to arrive at the Queen’s House no later than a quarter to one.”

“You mean Buckingham Palace?” Arthur asked, confused.

“The Queen would rather _not_ have the house called that if you please.” After a pause, “Your Highness.”

Augusta shrugged next to him, she may have even rolled her eyes, if princesses were allowed to do such things.

“I’ll see you there,” he said to Augusta.

“Mary should be there, perhaps even Elizabeth with grace us with her presence."

Arthur got into the carriage and leaned out the open window, waving goodbye to Augusta as they rolled away.

His trip to Frogmore had reminded him of the stiff stateliness of the castles back home, yes. But Augusta had also reminded him of the joy he’d almost completely forgotten.

He rested his head back. He was sure all around London there were young women excitedly screeching as they were zipped into their expensive dresses. Huffing as their mother’s told them off for slouching. And blushing as their family heirlooms were placed upon their necks.

Arthur was sure they were all stunning, and perfect, and worthy. But none of them were destined to be his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: An Informed Friend


	10. An Informed Friend

Madame Delacroix pinned a seam together on Penelope’s left side and went to check on two newly arrived customers.

Penelope swirled, viewing the sample dress in the mirror. She was moving in a new direction this season. Gone were the greens and yellows of her house. She would forge her own path, and she knew that when it came to the high society of London, there was nothing quite as symbolic as a dress.

Delacroix finished up with the customers out the front and returned to Penelope, immediately dropping her fake French accent.

“Genevieve, doesn’t it ever get exhausting putting on that accent?” she asked, smoothing the dress at the sides. 

Genevieve made a yacking sound. “You got no idea.” She pulled the dress tight around Penelope’s waist and took some more measurements. “Decided on a fabric yet?”

Penelope hummed in thought. “I’m torn between that blueish silver you showed me and something a little more…outrageous.”

“Outrageous sounds like much more fun,” Genevieve said approvingly, moving around her to take measurements. “Will you be attending today’s presenting?”

Penelope barked a laugh. “You couldn’t pay me to go. All that stuffy superiority. It’s all ‘look at that dress’, and ‘don’t you think he’s handsome’.”

Genevieve sighed. “The world needs a little bit of everyone. Whatever makes them happy, I suppose.”

“Yes, but _are_ they happy? All I’ve seen year after year is the women getting more miserable while the men continue their consequence-free, frolicking.”

“Frolicking?” Genevieve laughed around a few pins between her teeth.

Penelope yawned. “I’m sure as the season gets underway, I’ll be inundated with mundane news to write about. This prince arriving yesterday meant I had to go to the printers in the dead of night.”

“Do you think he’ll hold a candle to the Duke?”

Penelope considered it. “I should hope so, at the very least he should cause a stir.”

“But?” Genevieve probed, sensing a limp in Penelope’s tone.

“But I’m not sure any of it excites me now. This winter I got a taste of a different life. Something more. I crave it now. Going back to playing dress-up and princesses is all a bit…disappointing.”

Genevieve nodded, bending down to work on her hem. “It’s important for us to wait until things cool off. Until then, I’m afraid it’s going to be late nights and tiaras.”

With their winter secret hidden close, Penelope turned to her duty as Whistledown. “Any tittering’s you could offer me for our next issue? I ought to have something ready to pad out what I’m sure will be a boring presenting this afternoon.”

“Now that you mention it,” Genevieve whispered, standing up, “Lady Cowper seems to have indulged with yet another of her footmen.”

Penelope tilted her head, measuring the gossip. “Low-hanging fruit, but something to fill in the gaps.”

“There’s talk of a number of lords being investigated for some sort of fraud on the stock exchange.”

“How interesting,” Penelope said, “But hardly of value to our readers. Who told you?” She acting casual but the hammering of her heart gave her away.

Genevieve noticed, laying a hand on Penelope's shoulder. “Lady Hatch was in here yesterday morning, distraught at the prospect of her husband being implicated.”

“Poor thing." She sighed in relief.

“A local jewelry store reported a reward for some stolen gold necklaces," Genevieve continued.

Penelope turned so that she could see the back of the dress. “We’ll be leaving that tidbit out, I think.”

“Other than that, all I’ve heard day in and out is all the eligible suitors swarming into town like locusts.”

“Yes, I’m clutching my fan with anticipation at what this year’s men will bring.” Penelope’s voice was as dry as her mother’s dusty fascinators. “Could it be a sense of male superiority? Perhaps the delicate touch of patronization. Or maybe they’ll impress me, surprise me even, and leave their unforgivably boring, off the hanger, cheap scratchy suits at home.”

By this point, Genevieve was doubled over with laugher.

Penelope was just getting started. “I’m hardly wrong, am I? We spend hours in here, and thousands of pounds, all to look good for them and for what? They show up in the same black suits event after event. Could you imagine if a woman wore the same dress twice in a row? She’d be ousted from society before her garter hit the ground.”

“P-Pe-P-” Genevieve was gasping. “Penelope stop. I’m going to faint.”

“Oh,” she said, noticing the red of Genevieve’s face. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Madame Delacroix had never looked anything but well presented up until now. Penelope had to laugh herself.

In the heat of her speech, a rosy blush had crept its way across Penelope’s face, clashing with the gray of the fitting dress.

“You know, I think I’ve decided on a fabric for the ball.”

“And what are we going with? Boring and predictable, or outrageous.” Turning to see Penelope’s grin in the long mirror she nodded. “Say no more. Outrageous it is.”

Madame Delacroix began rustling in the back while Penelope stared out of the shop windows, watching people milling about. She pitied each and every girl who was under their mother’s eye right now getting ready to be presented, but she especially pitied Eloise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: An Insatiable Appetite


	11. An Insatiable Appetite

Lady Danbury’s carriage slid to a stop outside the Bridgerton’s house. The driver jumped down, opened her door, and held out his hand to steady her towards the ground.

She was welcomed by a footman and escorted inside.

Lady Danbury had always liked the house. It was simple and not obtuse. It was a refined statement on an otherwise bland street. It had been the home of her friend Viscount Bridgerton, not the current, not the previous, but the one even before him. It made her feel rather old, but perhaps she needed a reminder now and then.

The footman led her to the parlour on the ground floor, a thoughtful change from the upstairs drawing-room.

Upon entering the room, she saw Violet, sat in the window seat, staring out at the sunny day.

“Violet,” she greeted her.

Seemingly pulled from a particularly worrisome daydream she smiled at Lady Danbury. “Please,” she gestured at the chair opposite her. It was Lady Danbury’s favourite, Violet must have ordered it down from upstairs just for her. It was a fine cushioned seat made of the deepest green fabric she’d ever seen.

“Help yourself.” Violet swept her hand across a table full of food. Small sandwiches, fruit sliced up too small to be of any real taste, and a number of sweet treats.

Lady Danbury held up her hand, “I couldn’t possibly. The sheer volume delicious cakes I had to eat this morning is enough to make one’s stomach quite dizzy.”

“Some tea then?” Violet asked, pouring her a cup and glancing back out of the window.

“Lovely.” Lady Danbury whisked a heaped spoonful of sugar into her tea. “I hope my visit did not add to an already stressful day.”

Violet smiled and waved the concern away. “Your visits are always welcome.”

“That is not what I asked,” she said over the rim of her teacup.

“In truth, your visits are a blessing, Lady Danbury. It really is quite nice to speak to an adult occasionally.”

“Not stimulated by the other flocking mothers?”

Violet sighed. “After last year, I am sure each one of them would like to see me fall as far as possible.”

“Sharks will always circle, you mustn’t give them a taste of blood.”

Violet’s eyes drifted back to the glass. “A sad fact. Please, how have you been? How was your Winter?”

“Desperately cold,” Lady Danbury began, and they slipped into a familiar and welcome exchange of recent past.

Violet finished recalling where exactly Colin was on his European excursion and changed the conversation, “You must tell me about these delicious cakes you mentioned. Anything that impressed Lady Danbury is sure to offer me a life-changing experience.”

Lady Danbury explained to Violet about how she'd had a catering disaster, and how a replacement had fit, almost too neatly, into the vacuum. Perhaps she focused a bit too much on Mr. Eames because Violet’s eyes seemed to finally focus.

“Could there be a Lord Danbury on the horizon?” she asked.

With the slowness of a cat, Lady Danbury grinned. “ If only one was born just a century or two later.”

“You could bring him on in your kitchens. Something to brighten up that dreadful view of rolling hills and stunning lakes.”

Lady Danbury nodded. ‘Perhaps. If his bread is half as good as those cakes, I imagine there would be a few pregnancies scandalizing my kitchen in no time.”

Violet stifled a laugh and returned to looking out the window.

With a clipped tone Lady Danbury asked, “Is there something out the window more interesting than our conversation?”

“No, my apologies. Eloise is yet to return home.” She looked at the clock on the mantle.

Lady Danbury noted the time and tutted. “If you thought you had your hands full with Daphne’s presenting. I think I may have to disappoint you.”

“Disappointed I shall be. Surprised, I shall not,” Violet said with a sigh.

“On that note,” Lady Danbury said. "I should be getting home, lest I too arrive underdressed.”

As Violet and Lady Danbury mingled their goodbyes in the entrance hall, the wide doors blew open, and in came running a sweaty, filthy teenager.

Eloise was red-faced and panting, her dress was in tatters around herself and there appeared to be a great deal of dirt covering her.

Mere hours before her presenting. Lady Danbury watched the outrage flare within Violet.

“I shall depart. Quickly.” Turning to Eloise she shook her head, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. “I shall see you this afternoon. Do try and brush those clumps from your hair, won’t you dear?”

She was out the door, laughing, and her driver was once again helping her up into the carriage. A thought struck her as she watched the Violet march Eloise out of view.

“A favour, Gilbert,” she said before he closed the door behind her.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Take us past Parker's bakery on our way home.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He shut the door and climbed back up to his perch.

She thought back to her morning tea. Eames had been more intriguing than she could have hoped for. There was something about those grey eyes. Almost silver. Why, if he’d been twenty years older, Lady Danbury thought with a cackle.

“We’re here, ma’am," the driver said, slowing the carriage.

Lady Danbury pulled back the curtain from her small window and viewed the bakery. Through the smashed windows, she could see a burned-out husk of what used to be the nicest bakery on this side of London. It had been gutted by flames. 

She’d suspected as much.

With the tap of her cane on the roof, the carriage sped up.

You needed two things to become a success in London. A keen sense of business, and a cutthroat ability to stand on the neck of anyone in your way.

Mr. Eames appeared to have both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The Dockmaster


	12. The Dockmaster

The Thames smelled like salt, fish, and piss.

Eames reached the docks, forever impressed by their sheer size. The construction was said to have almost finished and then the docks would open fully. For now, only a few ships made their way in to be moored. The rest were docked on the wharves.

He navigated the bustling walkways, doing his best to stay out of the way of the yard workers. A few of them nodded as he passed. Acquaintances from a previous life.

“Eames!”

He turned. Walking towards him was the Dockmaster, Stephen Miles. Colleague, businessman, and criminal.

“Good to see you, Joe.” They shook hands and Eames smiled. It was good to be among friends.

“Walk with me,” Stephen said, taking off into a labyrinth of crates.

Eames followed dutifully, sidestepping the occasional cart or wagon.

Underneath the smells of the water outside were hot metals, singed together, burned with solder and reeking of iron.

“They’ll be finished this year they reckon,” Stephen said, turning back to look at Eames. “Dunno if I believe ‘em. Feels like a hundred years since they started expanding.”

Eames couldn’t remember the docks ever _not_ being under construction. It seemed like the infrastructure of London was always a few steps behind, stumbling to catch up.

They reached a set of stairs that led to a small office. Once inside, with the door firmly shut, all the noise and smells of the docks vanished. It was a peaceful bubble trapped in a chaotic storm.

“Much better.” Stephen’s office was furnished with fine wooden pieces, all dark and well-polished. Compared to the outside, this place was heaven, it even had carpet.

Stephen poured two glasses of dark brown liquid.

Eames gladly took the glass he was offered and sat down, sinking into the pillowed leather wingback.

Gesturing his glass, Stephen said, “Arrived this morning, straight from the West Indies. Best rum on the streets of London.”

Eames nodded, taking a sip. It was rich and sweet, but mostly it lit a fire in his throat.

Stephen noticed his eyes tearing up. “Not to your fancy?”

Putting the glass back down, Eames said, “I’m a gin man, Stephen, you know that.”

The dockmaster shrugged. “You can’t blame a man for trying to save a lost soul.”

Eames laughed. Stephen had taken a shine to Eames in his early years, and for that, he would always be grateful. If it weren't for him, they would have gone hungry most nights. Would have probably lost their house, maybe even ended up dead. 

Finishing his glass and setting it down, Stephen folded his arms and smiled. “How can I help?”

“I’m to cater a ball for Lady Danbury in two days' time.”

Stephen nodded.

“There will be over a hundred guests. I need to start baking tomorrow morning if I’m to finish in time.”

The dockmaster nodded again. “You know there’s only one person importing the ingredients you’ll need on that scale right now.”

Eames flashed a sheepish grin.

Stephen’s eyes crinkled. “It’s almost as if you’re asking me to steal from the royal household, the King himself, so you might further your opportunities.”

“Yes,” Eames said, deadpan.

Stephen mulled it, shrugging. “Theft from the royals wouldn’t be anything new. I’ll have the lads send it over this evening.”

“I appreciate it," Eames said, letting out a long breath.

“I know.”

Eames was comfortable here, with Stephen. There was no façade to put in place, no charm to cast. His thoughts turned inward.

“Something else?” Stephen’s eyes were almost as sharp as Lady Danbury’s. Almost.

Eames let his thought tumble out, a rare occurrence. “Do you ever just ask yourself why?”

“Why?” Stephen repeated. "Why what?" 

Eames was fidgeting, and he hated it. "Exactly, why do you wake up and do what you do?"

“No. Never why. I see opportunities, Eames. I don’t ask why, only how.”

It was Eames’s turn to nod. “Ever since…you know. I’ve just been wondering what I really want, and _why_ I want it.”

“Does it matter? Want it, get it. That’s our way. These rich snobs making you soft?” he said, more steely than expected.

Feeling the sting of judgment, Eames carefully placed the mask back on his face, a cavalier and powerful man. Any sign of vulnerability squashed.

“Thank you, Stephen. I appreciate your help. I’d better get back and get prepared.” He stood and nodded at the old man.

“Send my love to Lydia and Ariadne," the Dockmaster said with some warmth.

“I will.” He turned and made his way to the door. He’d almost shut it, before he remembered something, peeking his head back in the office he said, “One last thing, I’m sending a man, Bill, down here in the morning. Lost his job, giving his wife grief.”

Stephen nodded. “Does he want a job, or do you want him to take a boat to some far-off land?”

Eames smirked. “A job.” He thought about it a second. “Let’s not rule out the venture to a far-off land though.”

“Right you are, Eames.”

As Eames made his way out of the docks, he felt a pit of rejection sinking in his stomach. A moment of emotion, just a slip of his guard, and he felt as if he’d lost the respect of someone he admired. His teeth were gritted painfully.

This tiny event, a minuscule sentence said with no thought, had Eames in a foul mood. His thoughts chasing themselves around his swirling up a storm.

Was it too much to ask that he be able to relax just once in a while?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The Royals


	13. The Royals

Eloise pulled at her sleeves. Her gown was made of a silvery fabric, chosen by her mother of course. She supposed it was quite beautiful. It caught the light in a way that made it shimmer, as if it were made of water rather than silk. A diamond necklace hung heavy on her neck, threatening to drag her down. On top of all that, her shoes were killing her.

And yet, as their carriage thundered across London, the silk felt nothing short of a death sentence. She pulled at the shoulders. It felt like a snake. A shimmering silver snake, coiling its way around her body and constricting.

Eloise fought the waves of lightheadedness.

“You look stunning,” her mother told her, clearly unaware of the discomfort she was in. Or perhaps she was aware, and just didn’t care, Eloise thought.

“Mm,” she replied without any enthusiasm.

Her mother sighed. “Tomorrow will be a new day, Eloise. For now, you must put a smile on.”

“I shan’t.” Eloise folded her arms in a huff, fully aware of how childish she was behaving.

“You must,” her mother’s tone was final. “It is all I ask.”

“Is it indeed?” Eloise flared, seizing the chance to unleash her frustration. “So you are _not_ asking me to spend the next six months of my life doing my best to garner the attention of men? Oh that’s not all, is it? You want me to do this year after year until you sell me off to a suitable bidder.”

“I will not ‘sell you off’,” her mother brushed off her shoulders. “How could you say such a thing of me?”

“Women are just cattle in this world, mother. Lambs for the slaughter. You sending me to these balls is as good as putting the knife to my throat.”

“Eloise!” Violet appeared to be on the verge of fainting.

Fearing the next slew of lectures, and wanting to avoid her mother’s premature death, Eloise relented. “Fine.” She took a deep breath. “I shall go to the balls, meet the suitors, and smile. I shall smile at everyone, but my Winter’s are mine and mine alone.”

Her mother’s eyes flashed, but as fate would have it, Eloise was spared from another battle as the carriage slowed, rolling to a gentle stop.

There was a dull buzz outside the window, Eloise could feel the energy of all the people out there. She closed her eyes.

She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life arguing with her mother. And really, it was only half of her life she was choosing to give up in a fruitless pursuit. Her mother’s happiness was important, she supposed. But more important than her own?

The carriage door swung open and a wall of sound hit them hard. Gaggles upon gaggles of young girls and their mothers swamped the gates to the palace.

Eloise let her mother out first, her eyes were wide and she was shaking slightly. Perhaps Whistledown would report on her appearance in the morning.

Taking her deepest breath yet, Eloise forced light into her dead eyes, and stepped down from the carriage.

No one paid Eloise any mind. They never did. Just how she liked it.

Although, that wasn’t completely true. She dare not admit it to herself, but there may have been part of her that wanted people to look at her like they looked at Cressida Cowper, or Daphne.

She shook herself, making her way through the palace gates, what a silly and unuseful thought.

The endless stream of young women and miserable crones filed into the palace.

Eloise checked her nails for dirt, a force of habit. They were immaculate, filed smooth and buffed. They passed a particularly beautiful row of planted roses and it took all the self-control Eloise had to not stuff her hands into the mud, wipe it on her dress, and flee back to the carriage, unfit for an audience with the queen.

She glanced to the side at her mother, who was glaring back as if she could read the thoughts in Eloise’s head.

Perhaps not then.

It was a sweltering day, odd for Spring. The seasons appeared to be trying to make up for the cold Winter with an early heat. Eloise was fanning herself slowly.

“Try not to sweat dear.” Her mother dabbed at Eloise’s forehead.

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

They must have waited for an hour at least before they made it inside the halls of the palace. There seemed to be more and more girls every year. While she certainly wasn’t the queen’s biggest fan, she did pity her on days like today.

To see the same copy of a girl walk in and out over and over again. Family heirlooms, plain dress, light rouge. Eloise was certain they would all blend into the same one hazy memory of a bland young woman.

They were almost to the hall, ready to be presented. Her mother was exchanging light conversation with another woman, each of them speaking through gritted smiles. Eloise hated the pretend courtesy of these people.

“I must go and use some powder. All that sweat,” she announced to her mother, who nodded and patted her away.

A footman escorted her to a small room off the side of a hallway so big she could have hurled a rock from one side and not hit the other.

Without a word, the footman bowed and opened the door for her.

She entered an ornate room full of ornate things and was immediately rolling her eyes. She scanned the room for something, anything, to occupy her while she pretended to powder her cheeks. There were portraits, and mirrors, and soft looking seats, but everything was plush and too perfect.

Eloise’s eyes landed on the fireplace and a thought crept its way from her arched eyebrow all the way to the darkest part of her mind.

Mother would be furious.

Pen would be ecstatic.

She had promised to behave.

Lady Whistledown was sure to approve.

She stepped closer to the fireplace. Cleopatra was an icon of history. A woman to be feared are adored. Cleopatra wasn’t a whiny girl, she was one of the greatest rulers of Egypt.

Eloise bent down and picked up a sliver of charcoal, touching it to her lips.

Returning to the mirror, she traced her eye with the sharp tip of the charcoal. It hurt, but she would persevere, holding in the tears so that she wouldn’t ruin the markings.

Once finished, she appraised herself. Perhaps not the neatest work, but she was happy to see the impact of the black lines. She drew herself higher, picturing how Cleopatra might have held herself. Surrounded by men, challenged at every turn, and still the strongest person in a room.

As she turned to leave she noticed a small black mark where she’d wet the charcoal. She was about to wipe it away when another thought occurred to her.

Women of the night often made their lips red. She knew that from speaking to the maids. They’d told her all sorts of stories about what went on outside of their pocket of distinction.

She touched the charcoal to her lips once more, this time gently swiping it across. It hardly seemed clean, but the charcoal had been purified in the fire. Perhaps she would also be purified by the fire.

Her lips were black. As black as the wings of a raven. Giving herself a small nod, she covered her face with her fan and left the room.

The footman didn’t glance at her once as he escorted her back.

But it wasn’t the footmen’s eyes she feared.

They were next in line to be presented to the queen and thankfully when Eloise returned, her mother was deep in conversation with a group of women.

For the first time since arriving at the palace, Eloise was attracting stares. Other debutantes catching a glimpse of her stark eyes above the fan.

Her mother finished her conversation and moved over to behind Eloise. “Are you ready, dear?”

Eloise nodded, looking ahead, keeping her fan pressed close.

What was she doing? A heat pulsed through her. This was the queen. Her jaw clamped shut. She was a fool.

“What is on your eye, Eloise?” Her mother’s voice was low. She knew her smile was gone.

Eloise pretended not to have heard her.

Her mother's voice dropped, her tone full of dangerous rage. “Eloise. _What_ is on your face?”

The gold handles on the door in front of them twisted.

A booming voice sounded from the next room. “Miss Eloise Bridgerton, presented by the right honorable, the dowager viscountess Bridgerton.”

The doors unfurled in front of her.

The room was long. Each side full of people.

Her eyes hit the ground and she took her first step into the room.

She could hear the whispers, only whispers, they filled her ears like a deafening cannon.

More steps, tracing the red path on the carpet below her.

Cleopatra wouldn’t stare at the floor.

With practiced confidence, Eloise made her back straight and looked directly ahead, chin high.

She let the fan fall to her side.

There were gasps added to the whispers. Although her eyes were wide open, her entire vision was blurred. She couldn’t tell if it was the charcoal or fear.

She stopped just short of the bright and gilded blur of the queen, curtsying low, taking the time to close her eyes in a long blink, wishing she would wake up in bed.

The whispers had stopped.

She opened her eyes and saw the queen, her usual flurry of servants, and a tall man sitting next to her.

This must be the prince Whistledown had spoken of. Her vision cleared.

“You,” the queen accused. To avoid the burning gaze of the monarch, Eloise weighed the prince.

It turned out he wasn’t tall at all. He was simply stood instead of sitting. His feet must have been killing him. He was just a touch taller than the queen’s unnecessarily high hair. 

The prince’s own hair was pressed back, in a way that would have made a lesser man appear arrogant. His face was smooth, and his eyes looked kind, although, from this distance, Eloise couldn’t see their colour. What she did see, however, was one eyebrow gently raise to an absurd height.

He looked slight but athletic, his arms tight in what Eloise assumed was his royal uniform. A fitted jacket adorned with tassels and silver buttons, underneath she could glimpse a vest embroidered with flowers. Delicately pressed trousers gave way to the shiniest shoes Eloise had ever seen. What he must have thought of her. 

There she was, in front of not just her own royalty, but foreign royalty as well. The queen would have her hanged.

Eloise curtsied once more, taking a step backward, hoping she could slip out of the room with her neck intact.

“Wait.” It was the prince.

Eloise looked up, grimacing.

“By chance, are you familiar with the reign of Cleopatra?” he asked.

Eloise’s tongue was too big for her mouth, it must have been swollen because she couldn’t speak at all.

She nodded.

The prince smiled. “I thought so. She was rather a…” he seemed to be searching for a word.

But such a word did not exist for such a woman. You couldn’t hope to put all she was into a simple and tired word. “Luminary,” Eloise finished for him.

He nodded, smile growing. “Quite.”

Chancing a quick glance at the queen, seeing her hawk-eyes narrowed, Eloise curtsied once more and moved to the side of the room, allowing the next girl to enter.

“Well,” said a purring voice behind her and she spun. “At least you left the mud in the garden.” Lady Danbury’s eyes flashed, she was smirking.

A hand wrapped its way around the top of Eloise’s arm.

“Good luck,” Lady Danbury whispered.

Turning slowly, Eloise saw it was her mother who was clutching her arm, knuckles white with pressure, nostrils flared with rage.

It would be a long and horrible carriage ride home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The Egyptian


	14. The Egyptian

When would the torture end? Arthur asked himself, hearing yet another long name announced.

The doors opened and a young woman entered. She walked forward, curtsied, and awaited a comment from the queen. When she said nothing, the young woman would curtsy again, and vanish into the crowd, only to be replaced with another one moments later.

That’s how his day burned away.

Announced. Enter. Curtsy. Vanish. Announced. Enter. Curtsy. Vanish.

It was enough to bore the rhythm of the words into Arthur’s mind. He’d even started humming to a tune.

Announced. A girl with enormously bushy eyebrows appeared.

She curtsied, and… Arthur would say leered at him. It wasn’t quite a smile, it was more the way you look at a meal when you’re famished.

Her mother appeared behind her. It seemed the eyebrows ran in the family. And, ah, so did the smile.

Arthur nodded to them, following the queen’s lead. Then the girl and her mother vanished into the sidelines.

“I’m thirsty,” the queen sighed.

A footman appeared with a tall glass. The queen seemed to be doing her best to empty all the wine barrels in the palace. He looked over across the dais to Augusta, who was already looking at him with bulging eyes. She was miming a drunk person out of their mind when Arthur let out a sharp laugh.

The queen turned to him slowly. “Are you quite alright, cousin?”

Arthur thumped his chest with his fist. “Just some trapped air I think, your majesty.”

“Mmm.” With pursed lips, the queen looked ahead and motioned for the next girl to be brought in.

This one was well-rounded, with flowing red hair and a pale green dress. A disastrous colour choice. What had meant to accentuate her hair had ended up clashing like two carriages full of gun powder.

She smiled at Arthur as she curtsied. It was so bright that Arthur smiled back, which caused a stir among the onlookers.

The queen nodded her away.

Arthur looked at the sun outside, it was almost setting. Surely they were almost finished.

Another name was announced unnecessarily loud.

The doors opened and Arthur found himself quite transfixed. A slouched girl covering her face entered, trailed by a red-faced mother who looked horrified.

About halfway across the room the girl slowed, straightened her back, and let the fan fall away.

Arthur leaned forward. The girl had painted a heavy line around her eyes, but most shocking of all, her lips were black. And shocked the room was.

There were gasps and whispers of outrage.

He looked to his left, Augusta seemed just as intently focused on the girl. Neither approving nor disapproving, just interested.

“You.” The queen had half raised a finger, ready to deliver a judgment, but before she could, the girl curtsied again and tried to slink into the crowd.

“Wait,” he said, unsettled by the silence that followed his words. It seemed like even the birds outside had stopped to listen.

“By chance, are you familiar with the reign of Cleopatra?” he asked.

Turning whiter by the second, the girl nodded.

“I thought so, she was rather a…” Arthur searched for a work dignified enough to fit. Legend, masterpiece, icon. All of them fell rather short of the woman Cleopatra was said to have been.

“Luminary?” the girl offered.

He nodded. “Quite.”

With that, the girl did indeed fade away to the crowd.

He could feel the queen staring at him, but he chose to look ahead, placid, ignorant.

He managed to stay this way for the rest of the presenting, which thankfully, wasn’t much longer.

After the queen had dismissed the crowd and the room had emptied, it was just a few stragglers along with the queen’s court left.

An elegant woman with a cane approached the dais. Her teeth flashed, and Arthur immediately felt as if he was being stalked by a dangerous animal.

“Lady Danbury,” the queen greeted her.

“Your majesty,” the woman said, curtsying as low as she could, which at her age was not low at all.

“May I introduce my distant cousin, Prince Arthur.” The queen floated a hand out in his direction.

“Your highness.” She curtsied once more, and Arthur could almost hear the snap of her joints as she did.

Arthur took her hand and placed a small kiss on the flat of it. Her skin felt far rougher than it looked.

Lady Danbury looked directly at the queen. “What an interesting afternoon.”

“Was it?” the queen drawled.

“Perhaps not.” Lady Danbury laughed, stepping back down from the dais. “Although…”

“Yes?” the queen’s tone made it clear she was ready to barb.

Lady Danbury didn’t appear to be worried in the slightest, she even looked excited. “Cleopatra,” she said the single word with relish.

The queen leaned forward in her chair. “Atrocious.”

Lady Danbury took a step closer. “Fascinating.”

The queen lifted her nose high. “Horrid.”

Lady Danbury hit her cane on the ground. “Splendid.”

The queen’s voice was on the verge of a shout, “Treason.”

Lady Danbury smirked. “Luminary.”

They were locked together, the air turning thick.

Finally, the queen’s posture relaxed. “Perhaps,” she consented.

“She is not her sister, your highness.” Lady Danbury seemed humble in her win. Arthur was glad, to gloat after besting the queen would not be wise.

“Her sister?” Arthur asked, unsure if he was even invited to speak, but Danbury seized upon the chance to sweep away the queen’s gaze.

“Daphne, your majesty. The jewel of last season,” Lady Danbury explained.

“How did miss Daphne’s season end?” Arthur was genuinely curious, to be the jewel of the season meant the girl must have been flooded with proposals.

Lady Danbury’s eyes softened. “Why, she married a young duke.”

“For which they have only myself to thank,” the queen interjected, standing. “Would you care for some refreshments? That wine seems to have had quite the effect.” The queen turned to her secretary. “Whomever purchased that bottle, see to it that they never enter my palace again.”

The secretary nodded vehemently.

Before she left, the queen looked back to Arthur. “Lady Danbury will be your host in two night’s time. It is her ball that will open the season proper.”

Lady Danbury bowed her head, honoured.

“I shall look forward to it, Lady Danbury,” he hoped he sounded sincere, because he was not.

With that, the queen and Lady Danbury left, escorted by the royal maids.

It was just Augusta and Arthur left.

As soon as the doors closed, Augusta threw herself down on the queen’s lounge and laid across it.

“Why in the name of heaven is London so scorched?” she asked him, breathless.

Arthur wiped the sweat from his brow. “What have we done to deserve such heat?”

“Unacceptable!” Augusta shouted to the empty room.

Arthur slumped at the other end of the lounge. “You should find this all familiar. I doubt in the entire history of my frozen country, that it has ever been this hot there.”

Augusta sighed and sat up. “Are we two truly the most dramatic people in London?”

Arthur nodded, “It would appear that way.”

“Solution?” she gave up on fanning herself.

Remembering what they would do when they were younger, Arthur said, “We could sneak out to one of the fountains and splash our way to a cooler temperature.”

“An excellent idea.” She leaped up with more energy than Arthur had seen from her since they were children.

Laughing Arthur asked her, “And what if your mother saw us through a window? Worse, what if one of the servants saw us. I shudder to think what that Whistledown woman would say.”

Pouting, Augusta sat back down. “We all shudder to think what she might say.”

Arthur let his head roll back against the lounge. “Does your mother enjoy the scandal sheets?”

Augusta scoffed. “She did, up until Whistledown started making snide comments about her. Now they’re enemies.”

Arthur laughed. “Enemies?”

“Oh yes. Mama even sent people after her last year.”

Arthur perked up. “Really?”

Augusta nodded vehemently. “She wanted to unmask Whistledown more than anything. She engaged all sorts of people to aid her. Some Bobbies, one particularly nefarious Peeler, and well, even that girl you were interested in earlier.”

Arthur looked at her, confused. Then he remembered the lined eyes. “Oh her.”

“Indeed. Miss Bridgerton.”

Arthur was intrigued indeed. “What use could she have had for such a girl?”

Augusta hummed. “Quite the investigator apparently, did her best to track down Whistledown herself.”

“And?” Arthur asked.

“And what? Oh. No, alas, Lady Whistledown’s identity remains to this day a complete mystery.”

“How thrilling.”

“About as thrilling as it gets here during the season,” she said, sitting up and laying her head in Arthur’s lap. “Although you’re sure to make it a memorable one this year.”

Arthur felt a flash of uncomfortable chills across his neck. “I hope not. The more mundane this season is the better.”

“After today there’s no chance. I can feel it in the air. This shall be the most remarkable season yet.”

Sweating in the confined heat of the palace, Arthur’s stomach began to ache. The last thing he wanted was something remarkable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The Baker


	15. The Baker

Penelope hadn’t returned home after her visit to Madame Delacroix. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to spend the afternoon with her Mother while the rest of London was out at the presenting.

More than a few vases had been thrown since their downfall, and Penelope had a feeling her mother would be in a worse mood than usual.

Taking the opportunity the bright day presented her, Penelope went to Hyde Park, found a nice quiet bench, and took out her worn book. While the cover might have said one thing, the pages within said another. She had attached a novel cover to an empty notebook and filled it with neat secrets.

The book contained notes on people, their habits, and their lies.

She flipped through the pages. Lady Cowper’s footman scandal. A note about one Patricia Allen, who had given birth recently, after being married to her husband but six months. A timetable of shipments arriving in London. A growing list of jewelry stores that had been robbed.

With her pen pressed to her lips, and a thoughtful expression painting lines onto her face, Penelope hardly noticed as a man sat down next to her on the bench.

Ready to move away and find another bench, Penelope looked around at the man.

“Oh hello, you!” Her face brightened considerably.

“Good day, Miss Featherington,” Eames’s steady voice soothed.

“Out enjoying the sun?” she asked.

“On my way back to the bakery actually.”

Penelope thought for a second. “I should love one of your strawberry cakes, they’re such a sweet kiss.”

Eames stood up, towering, “Then I shall escort you henceforth m’lady highness,” he joked with a big smile.

Penelope hopped up and threaded her arm through his.

Two passers-by looked at them, unabashed.

“People will talk,” Eames laughed as they set off.

With a coy smile she said, “Something tells me Lady Whistledown won’t be intrigued.”

“We should be so lucky.” Eames dropped her a knowing wink.

“How was your morning?” She seemed completely at ease, walking with the broad and intimidating form of Eames.

“Very good, actually.”

“Am I to assume I’ll be eating some of your delicious creations at Lady Danbury’s ball?” she looked up at him excitedly.

He was beaming. “You are indeed.”

She patted his arm. “What great news. I think I’ll celebrate by having two cakes.”

Eames nodded, “It seems only fitting.” He took a deep breath, away with his thoughts.

They walked for a while through the park, drawing eyes, ignoring them. The leaves were just beginning to sprout, the paths were swept clean, and a few squirrels dashed up a trunk. It was a quiet day in the park, Penelope assumed it was because most of the people were either at the presenting or at home lamenting their lack of an invite.

As they walked underneath an arch of tree branches, Eames seemed to come back to himself. “And what of your morning? You must have been quite busy with your investigator making a visit.”

Penelope looked confused, and then the dawning of laugher tinkled. “Eloise! She mentioned meeting someone exceptionally handsome and unbelievably rude.”

Eames was grinning. “That does sound like me. Your tales of her weren’t understated. A tempest in a teacup that one.”

Penelope was sombre suddenly. “I hate lying to her, but it’s a necessary evil.”

“You don’t think you could trust her?”

It took Penelope some time to put her thoughts into a cohesive sentence. “It’s not that. You know more than anyone what it can be like to hold a secret, how detrimental it can be.”

Eames nodded solemnly, his grin nowhere to be seen.

“Sorry. Enough of that.” Penelope shook his elbow. “Back to your debut!”

“It’s been a bit of a nightmare already actually. I’ve had to hire a baker to help me, one of the ovens cracked this morning, and I’ve had to…” he dropped his voice, “borrow some ingredients from your friend at the palace.”

Penelope laughed. “Borrow? You intend to return them?”

“In the form of bread as light as clouds, and sweets as explosive as fireworks.”

“You had me at explosive,” Penelope said, eyes wide.

They laughed as they neared the edge of the park. A steady stream of carriages was rolling past on the road.

“How do you suppose the presenting’s going?” Eames asked her.

Penelope shrugged. “Dreadfully boring I imagine.”

Eames stopped to check for oncoming carriages. “How will you write about it, not being there?”

They crossed the road and into the bustling streets of London.

‘I have a bumblebee or two flitting about the palace.”

He smirked. “Of course you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The Queen


	16. The Queen

For most of the afternoon, Lady Danbury sat in a chair at the back of the room chatting. She spoke to Lords and Ladies, footmen and debutants. It was how Lady Danbury preferred to whirl her time away.

That was until she heard a familiar name. Using her cane for leverage, she made her way to the front of the crowd. The two gilded doors were pulled open and in walked a curiosity indeed.

At first, Lady Danbury simply thought Eloise was playing coy, covering her face with her fan to bring on an air of mystery. But it became apparent quickly that she wasn’t being coy at all. With a smooth gesture, Eloise removed the fan from her face, revealing some dramatic changes.

Lady Danbury held her chest, controlling herself so she wouldn’t emit a gasp like the rest of the frenzied people about her.

Eloise curtsied with a curve in her back and Lady Danbury let out a tut.

She was on edge, waiting to see the reaction from the royals. The queen looked contemptuous, Princess Augusta indifferent, and the new prince looked fascinated.

The prince seemed to be speaking to her, but Lady Danbury was too far to hear. Who would have guessed Eloise would catch the prince’s eye?

As Eloise crept back into the crowd, bright red and wide-eyed, Lady Danbury leaned in over he shoulder. “Well, at least you left the mud in the garden.” Then catching the look on Violet’s face she said, “Good luck.”

Lady Danbury returned to her chair, musing the possibilities of the season ahead. Could the Bridgerton house see another legendary match? First a duke, now a prince? She spent the rest of the afternoon curating scenarios in her head, thinking up the best ways to keep Eloise in the prince’s orbit.

Inviting them to the opera, slipping out midway, leaving the pair alone to talk. Organizing a cruise down the Thames. Perhaps a visit to the fairgrounds. Her mind spun wildly.

Just like that, the room was emptying and the presenting was over.

Lady Danbury approached the queen, ignoring the way her secretary tried to shoo her off.

They greeted each other. The queen, as usual, was ready to spar. And spar they did, Lady Danbury taking the crown today, reminding herself to allow the queen a win soon, lest she become murderous.

Being up close to the prince, Lady Danbury tried to get the size of him. Polite, quiet, but something about that calm demeanour was…manufactured. A little enigma to keep her entertained. When he kissed her hand she felt the heat of his touch and knew he was something special. 

The queen mentioned the upcoming ball and Lady Danbury tried to give off an aura of cool confidence. 

"I shall look forward to it, Lady Danbury," the prince said, face earnest.

The queen announced she was leaving, gesturing that Lady Danbury should follow with a wave of her hand.

Instead of the usual banal chit chat they used to fill the gaps between their verbal battles, the queen walked ahead of her through the halls of the palace silently, keeping close enough that Lady Danbury knew she wasn’t dismissed.

She knew by the path they were taking that they were headed for the library. Lady Danbury held her temper in check. The quiet was the queen’s punishment for besting her at barbs.

Eventually, they arrived at the library and took seats next to each other. The silence carried until the room was empty save for the two of them.

“Hmmph,” the queen sighed, rolling her head to the side.

Lady Danbury viewed her strange behaviour.

“Ahh,” the queen huffed, looking at the ceiling.

Exasperated, she asked, “Are you tired, your majesty?” Lady Danbury knew she was dancing with fire.

“No,” her voice was blunt.

“Perhaps bored?” she tried.

“Perhaps,” the queen said, and they lulled.

Lady Danbury began tapping the top of her cane with her fingernail.

“The greatest success of last season ended up being your charge, and my diamond,” the queen said, not turning to face Danbury.

She knew not to reply, instead to wait until the queen had finished her thought.

The queen’s voice was tight, as if she were struggling to squeeze the words out, “I should like the same for my cousin.”

Lady Danbury nodded. It took a lot to ask someone for help, even old acquaintances such as they were. It took even more out of a person to admit they were not the best woman for the job, especially when that woman ruled a large portion of the world.

With the worst hurdle overcome, the queen gained her confidence once more. “It is no secret that you are a particularly gifted matchmaker, Lady Danbury.”

“Thank you, your majesty.”

Her grandeur returned, the queen finished with a signature command. “I expect my cousin to be no less happy than your duke. I want him to find the sort of love that you and I both know hardly exists.”

Lady Danbury tapped her cane twice and nodded, a monumental task. “Consider it done, your highness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now you've met the players of our story. It's time we delved into the mystery of Eames and the stubbornness of Arthur. We shall see Eloise put those detective skills to use, and Penelope fight to keep her secrets hidden. But above all else, we will watch as Lady Danbury does, impatient for something marvelous to happen.
> 
> We're only just getting started, dear reader.


	17. Lady Whistledown - Edition 2

_Hello again dear readers._

_How spoilt you are to hear from me so soon after our last._

_I have certainly been busy. Although not quite as busy as some._

_The last time I checked, it was still frowned upon for a well-respected Lady to engage with her staff. You can imagine my surprise then, when I found out a member of the inner circle has found herself entangled with a footman. I shan’t name her here, for as you know, I am discrete. But if one were looking for answers, they might start with a clue of a bovine nature._

_What other scandals lurk beneath the bright surface of London, I wonder? We are sure to find out in the coming days. Word has it, even the royal secrets are slipping through the cracks._

_I digress. I know what you want to hear. You want to hear all about who the next jewel of the season will be. Well on that note, I must disappoint you._

_The crown deemed none good enough to receive her blessing. Though that blessing very well almost turned into a curse last year, did it not?_

_While her powdered majesty might not have selected a lovely young jewel, it would appear someone made quite a stir at the palace. The prince certainly made his opinions clear. After the last Bridgerton saga, who would have guessed another Bridgerton would storm the palace? Especially one with lips as dark as night, and eyes as striking as a bell tower._

_Are we to expect a mundane courting? Or can we hope for something more tantalising? After all, the prince is said to be related to some of the most exceptional royalty that ever lived. I should hope to meet an exceptional royal one day, but I doubt I will find such a person in London._

_Of one thing I am once again entirely certain. While Daphne Bridgerton might have stolen the heart of a duke, our prince will have to do a lot more if he hopes to tame the luminous Eloise Bridgerton._

_Until next time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: A Raspberry Tart


End file.
